


Rose Petals and Razor Blades

by TheBraillebarian



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Asexual Character, Blood and Injury, Consensual Somnophilia, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Somnophilia, Swordfighting, Trans Magnus Hammersmith, Trans Male Character, Trans Pickles the Drummer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian
Summary: A collection of spicy short fics and drabbles that don't fit anywhere else. Pairings listed in the chapter titles and fetishes at the top of chapter summaries.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Toki Wartooth, Melmord Fjordslorn/Charles Foster Offdensen, Melmord Fjordslorn/Magnus Hammersmith
Comments: 20
Kudos: 24





	1. Flight, Fall - Magnus/Toki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somnophelia. 
> 
> First chapter goes to [HeyMurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy) for making me think about this.

In his dreams he is flying, stomach plunging as he dips toward earth, giddy when he rises again. Magnus holds his arms wide and lazily rolls to drift in the clouds. A familiar thrill courses through his veins and he lets himself feel it.

Somewhere the sky shifts and he is lying still in a calm lake, colors swirling past his vision. That same giddy feeling of flight rises in him though he lies still. When it ebbs again he tries to call it back to no avail. The warm waters hold him motionless while a tide outside his control moves his desire. The dream shifts subtly and he knows he is on the verge of waking. He clings to the stillness and the heat rising in him, the sound of waves gently lapping at his skin.

Focused heat between his legs, wet and warm, draws him into wakefulness. His mind is still half in the lake, the water’s gentle sounds resolving into the caress of lips on skin. Early dawn light bleeds through his closed eyes as the swoop of flight rises in him again. He mumbles something incoherent and reaches an uncoordinated hand to the warm presence at his hip.

Fingers brush through silken hair and Toki hums around a full mouth, sending a tremor up Magnus' spine. He exhales, still drifting in his mindscape, and lets the rhythm of mouth and hands carry him. The feelings which were so elusive in dreams consume him now. He doesn't think or worry or even move, only lets the sensations wash over him, cozy in the knowledge that he is so wanted.

He drifts and flies simultaneously, the want building between his thighs pinioning his mind in its thrall. The world is nothing but the place where lips brush his skin, breath tickling his pubic hair, a hot throat swallowing him whole. He sighs deep in his chest and is answered by a pleased hum that dances behind his eyes. He rises high on currents of pleasure, body warm and still, then falls.

It is a dizzying plunge that sucks the air from his lungs in a hoarse gasp. His fingers twitch and tangle in Toki's hair. Air cold and wet chills him suddenly as his hips jerk feebly. He falls and falls, the wind roaring in his ears with the pounding of his heart. It consumes him, mind and body, bright in his head like the sun.

Sighing, content, he cracks open an eye to see Toki at his hip, licking his lips. Magnus smiles and the look of mischief on his beloved's face softens. Toki slithers up, a comfortable weight on his ribs, and presses their lips together. Magnus can taste himself on the man's tongue, feel stickiness caught in his mustache pressing against his cheek, and it's good. He is awake and it feels like flying.


	2. Cut You Wide Open - Melmord/Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood, swords, neck wounds. 
> 
> I tripped over some stunning Agaricales art and words fell out. :) Yes the title is a reference to Cautionary Tales of Swords. :D

Is it an accident, a slip of the hand, as if Charles Offdenson could be capable of any mistake? Has it been planned, some not so deep desire the man’s been harboring to relive a cherished memory? Does it matter?

The blade slips under his jaw with force like a punch and Melmord groans. He can hear the metal scrape inside his skull, grinding over the inside of his jawbone. It cuts his tongue with the same razored surprise of glass across a finger. He can feel it pinned in his neck just a hair shy of everything vital. He smiles. 

He is ever so aware of Charles’ hand at his waist, his own palm pressed flat to the man’s chest. The son of a bitch has the audacity to look discomfited at Melmord frozen in something like rapture. Hot blood meanders down the blade and his exposed neck. 

With a flick the metal slides free and Melmord collapses. He moans around the hole in his throat, the thigh pressed firm between his legs. 

“S’it good fer you?” he gasps thickly, red pooling under his cheek where it’s crushed to Charles’ breast. 

Whatever answer the man gives swirls into meaningless noise as he faints. 


	3. To Have and to Hold - Charles/Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handjob, comfort sex, crying, trans sex. 
> 
> Mental health prompt turned spicy for ThisisVenereVeritas!
> 
> Prompt was “I love you no matter what your brain tells you” with the pairing of my choice, which was apparently Chickles! As is my wont, Pickles is trans here and Charles asexual.

Varying shades of neon light from a disco ball wobble over Pickles’ pale skin, sparkling in traces of glitter and drying sweat on the sheets. Charles winces at how small and frail the man seems, dwarfed by the empty bed and it’s rumpled maroon comforter despite the sprawl of his limbs. His eyes are closed and his face slack but there’s a feeling in the air of palpable loneliness.

“I, ah, saw your lady friends leaving on the camera feed,” Charles doesn’t know what to say short of blunt honesty. 

“Oh. Hey chief.” Pickles remains motionless save for the bobbing of his throat. “Yeah. They left fer a better party. Prob’ly with Skwisgaar or Nate’n.”

Charles drapes his jacket over the back of a chair, loosens his tie with a bit more force than is needed. Music throbs low and heavy from the room’s state of the art stereo system. A much heavier sigh rises from the bed. 

“I used to be the one wearin’ out the girls and wantin’ more, ya know?”

“I recall.” He toes off his shoes. 

“I dunno if I got even one of them off. They were nice about it, real sweet. But...” A thick swallow. “Thought I wanted to party, ya know? Thought I could...like back in the day...”

His dress shirt is still on but it can wait. Charles kicks free of his work slacks and climbs onto the bed to wrap his arms around Pickles, press lips to his clammy temple. In all his decades of study he has yet to find words to sooth the grief of passing time. All he can give is his presence, so he does. 

Pickles only moves to lay a hand on Charles’ protecting arm. He stares at the lights oozing over the ceiling and blinks rapidly. They lie still through one slow song and another until Pickles sighs through his nose. 

“Mind turnin’ this shit off?”

“Certainly.”

Reluctantly Charles leaves the bed to turn off the music. He unbuttons his shirt and drops it on the jacket. Pickles is clammy and cold, his goosebumps pebbling against Charles’ bare chest. 

“Did you cum?” 

“Dunno.”

“Would you like to?”

A noncommittal noise. Moving slowly to give Pickles thinking time, Charles presses to his side and eases one hand over chest and abdomen. 

“I’m gross,” Pickles mumbles. “Stink like shitty booze. Can’t even make a groupie cum. Ya don’t have to do this fer me, chief.”

He trails through stiff pubic hair only half dry and slides a finger down the length of Pickles’ dick. “Would you prefer if I stopped?”

“...no. I know ya ain’t really into my bullshit but yer damn good when ya wanna be.” A broken little laugh, half sob, bleeds out of him. “Could use somethin’ good right about now.”

Then good it will be, Charles swears to himself. As good as he can make it. 

“You’re, ah, ‘bullshit’ as you say, is part of who you are,” Charles presses a kiss to Pickles’ scruffy cheek. “And I, ah, rather like who you are. Love, in fact. Who you are. Regardless of what you may think of yourself.”

“Charlie,” he sniffles and swats at his eyes. “Jesus.”

Charles smiles against his cheek. “I mean it.”

“Yeah. I know ya do.”

Pickles turns to press his lips to Charles’. He tastes like cigarettes and stale beer and a stranger’s cum and none of it matters. Charles deepens the kiss, hungrily taking in the subtle flavors of skin and tongue, the heady spice of rekindling arousal. His fingers trace through cooling slick then slide easily into heat. He thumbs at Pickles’ dick with a practiced motion, breathing in the gasp it elicits. Sliding his free arm under Pickles’ neck, Charles hugs him close as the first tears fall. 

Fingers and thumb work in tandem, pressure and rhythm dragging a reedy whine from the base of Pickles’ throat. He shivers, legs parted and hips trembling, sniffling loudly. The lights shimmering on his cheeks are captivating and a travesty, highlighting parted lips and one glassy bead of water before it vanishes into red hair. Charles kisses the wet stain, tastes the salt and moves his fingers until Pickles’ hands are clenched white knuckled in the sheets. The man was already close and it’s not long before he sucks in a tight breath, body arcing and taut, teeth gleaming white in the dimness. 

“Charlie?” Barely a whisper, body twitching and wet around the fingers inside. “I could really use a hug.”

Charles pulls his hand away only long enough to press it to Pickles’ back and roll him tight against his chest. 

“Nobody wants to be with me,” Pickles whimpers into his collarbones. 

“I do.”

“Yeah...?”

“Yes. Always.”

He rubs circles over Pickles’ back and holds him tight. Charles drapes a leg over one hip, gently nudging Pickles into a tangle of limbs. An arm droops over his ribs, fingers splaying in the small of his back. Even while crying, Pickles is fidgety, his fingers playing with the elastic band of Charles’ boxers. Snot and tears pool sticky in his chest hair and Charles can’t bring himself to care.

“Gahd,” Pickles swallows thickly. “I fell asleep, Charlie. Me! And when I woke up, they were leavin’. All quiet like they didn’t wanna wake me up.” A low, derisive sound. “What happened to me?”

“Not to speak ill of your guests but, ah, perhaps they weren’t the scintillating company they led you to believe.”

The laugh that startles out of Pickles makes Charles smile. “Aww. Love when ya get all defensive. Talkin’ shit to defend my honor. Yer sweet.” He lifts his head for a tender kiss. “Thanks fer comin’ to my rescue. Sahrry I kinda made a mess on ya.”

Charles reaches for the comforter and pulls it over them. “Nothing a shower can’t fix. Tomorrow.”

“Sounds fun. Can I come?”

“Consider it scheduled and,” he dips his hand down to squeeze a bare ass cheek, “events suitably planned for.”

“Gahd I hate how sexy yer events planning shit is.”

“If it, ah, works, why change?”

Just as he’s beginning to drift away with the lights and the steady rhythm of Pickles breathing in his arms the man stirs. 

“Charlie?” He feels the word on his skin, sleep fogged and warm. 

“Yes?”

“Ya mean it? Will ya be here when I wake up?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s late?”

“Even if it’s late.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Charles drifts into sleep with his lips on Pickles’ brow, lulled by the feel of him in his arms. 


	4. Morning Brew - Melmord/Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand job, noisy sex, trans character. 
> 
> Prompt fill for Agaricales! “Are you wearing my shirt?”

“Is that my shirt?” Melmord hides his grin behind a sip of coffee, brows climbing toward his hair.

Magnus looks down at the lurid floral print draped over his skinny frame. Some of the reds and pinks match the still healing scars on his chest, the whites contrasting nicely against the other much older wounds. He looks startled for a moment and picks at the hem. 

“It’s dark in there,” he grumbles. “Thought it was mine.”

“Looks good on you.”

A slow, owlish blink. He’ll never say it but Melmord loves how awkward Magnus is first thing in the morning. Grogginess has a way of softening his edges, or at least making it not worth the effort for him to wield all that sharpness. He watches Magnus shuffle to the coffee pot, the shirt not quite long enough to cover his back let alone anything else. 

Unable to resist, Melmord leaves his coffee and presses himself flush to Magnus’ back, hands wandering over bony hips. Magnus makes a contemplative noise, fingers tapping on the counter, before pressing his hips back. Melmord dips still warm fingers into loose boxers, also his, combining through hair to circle and stroke. His underwear is loose on Magnus, giving him room to flex and shift his hand. He mouths at skin exposed by the loose shirt collar and slides his unoccupied hand up Magnus’ inner thigh. 

“I like when you wear my things,” he flexes his fingers, dips them inside. “Looks good. Nice access.”

“Shut up,” Magnus groans. 

Melmord circles his thumb and drags his fingers over a sweet spot he knows well. “I can leave.”

Magnus growls, the sound shivering into something more wanting. Grinning, Melmord pushes deeper, stroking and petting with his free hand. He slowly grinds his hips against Magnus, work slacks already claustrophobic. His teeth skate over flushed skin while the coffee pot burbles, masking the gentle noise of wet friction between them. 

Though his face is turned away and half hidden by sleep tousled hair, Melmord can tell Magnus is biting his lip, trying to hold in his own noises. The man enjoys his morning quiet. It inspires Melmord to twist his fingers ever so slightly, pinch then caress, just to draw a sound out of him. The back under his chest is panting, Magnus’ fingers gripping the countertop white knuckled. Melmord sinks his teeth into muscle, a slow and steady pressure that breaks Magnus’ stubborn resolve and unfurls a rasping moan from his throat. 

“That’s it,” Melmord says into the red tooth marks. “Talk to me, bro.”

With the dam broken, every move strikes a chord. Each shaking breath out of Magnus is a symphony, gasps and nonsense syllables rising in volume as Melmord ups the tempo. He cums with a sharp cry almost at the same time as the coffee pot beeps, spilling hot and slick down Melmord’s hand. 

Melmord is just sliding his borrowed boxers down Magnus’ hips when his phone alarm goes off. 

“Fuck!”

Turning, wet and exposed, Magnus leans on the counter and salutes him with his coffee mug. “Have a nice day at work, champ.”

Melmord flips him the bird with a sticky finger before popping it in his mouth and running for the door. 


	5. Urban Decay - Magnus/Melmord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somnophilia, trans sex, nightmares and dreams. 
> 
> Agaricales and I were talking about Magnus’ yopo animal being one of those grungy gray city foxes and Charles’ being a pit bull (sweet to his family but bred with jaws that latch onto an enemy’s throat and never let go). Then this happened?

Concrete rubs his paws raw and bleeding, toenails catching and tearing in cracks filled with soot. He is running, wind carding through patched greasy fur, tail clotted with old grime streaking out behind him. One thing is pursuing and he doesn’t know from where, another a dismal shadow over his back, lolling tongue swiping between his legs. Fear and want tangle in him, circling in a loop between heaving breast and kicking thighs. He darts between human legs tall as trees and drags his side against stabbing brickwork. He runs and runs until his head is spinning, a throbbing scream building between tattered ears in counterpoint to the hot need in his groin. Panting, dying, he slams to a stop against a dark alley wall with no escape and the teeth crush into his throat.

Magnus wakes with a choked gasp, hands flying up to strike the presence he can feel bearing down on him in the dark. His fingers claw over muscle and a web of scars as something hot shifts sticky between his legs. 

“Is this a bad time?” 

“Melmord?” He flattens a palm over a broad and textured chest. 

The man shifts awkwardly, hands denting the sheets on either side of Magnus’ ribs. His concerned look is beginning to take shape out of the darkness, lit red by a company issue nightlight. Magnus is breathing hard, from the pressure between them or the dream he doesn’t know. Perhaps both. A hand cautiously touches his cheek. 

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Charles. He was killing me.”

Melmord snorts and Magnus feels it in the dick lodged in him. “On point. What was I doing?”

“I don’t know. This? You were just...there.”

“This is a bad time. I’ll go jack off in the bathroom or something. Try to get some sleep.” He moves to pull out and Magnus grabs for him. 

“No it’s fine. I’m just... Keep going.”

“You sure, man? You’re really out of it.”

“That’s the point isn’t it? Just...keep going.”

“Okay...” he moves between them, drawing back to push further in, rekindling the confused lust from the dream. 

Magnus drifts, too tired and lost to be anything but passive. His eyes slide shut and he sinks into the feel of hot breath on hischest, wanton heat sawing between his legs. His hands drift boneless onto his stomach then slide down to the rumpled sheets. Under him the mattress creaks and it sounds like an animal whimpering in pain, a dog perhaps or a mangy city fox. 

Exhaling, he feels the tide rise, the sound of bodies in motion like waves on rocks. Need coils ever tighter inside him built on a disjointed foundation. It feels like he has been hungry and waiting forever. 

And then, with a snap and a sigh, it washes him away. He leaves behind the red city and floats down a raging river. The rocks don’t hurt him, the water is unaccountably warm. It froths in his blood and pounds between his thighs until it all ebbs away and he is left lying naked in the sun, alone. 

Melmord is gone when he wakes again, a crusted spot on the sheets under him. Magnus rubs one sore thigh in contemplation. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about. 


	6. Slow Ride - Magnus/Melmord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Restraint, pinning, slow sex, trans character. 
> 
> Magnus’ plans for something quick don’t go as he expected. 
> 
> Inspired by Agaricales.

“Bro.”

Magnus pretends not to notice the way Melmord’s eyes fix on him, the shift in posture from indolent to focused. The Gear printed boxers ride low on his bony hips, Melmord’s discarded white t-shirt a bit loose in the shoulders and not long enough to hide the trail of dark hair wandering into the pilfered underwear. 

“What?” Magnus quirks a brow. 

“You, uh, mind coming here for a sec?”

A casual shrug. He could play it cool, act like either of them has anything else to do on their day off. Magnus drops into the gap between Melmord’s legs, unsubtly placing his thigh atop the man’s and running a heel over his calf. 

“You need something? Got a comment about my outfit?” Magnus leans into a muscled chest barely contained by pineapple print fabric and presses himself against the bulge in Melmord’s shorts. 

He’s getting ready to turn, take full advantage of the situation, when his right arm is suddenly pinned behind him, crushed between their bodies. It’s easy to forget what Melmord does for work, his speed and quick thinking masked by indolence. One arm pins his chest, fingers dancing electric over a rising nipple, the other hand stroking gentle pressure against Magnus’ neck. 

“Can’t just walk out in those without paying, man,” Melmord’s breath is hot in his ear. “Touch yourself for me.”

The instinct to struggle, to be contrary, rises in Magnus only to be quashed by the body holding him in place. His pinned fingers twitch over fabric and exposed skin where Melmord’s shirt is bunched between them. Obediently he slides his hand under the loose waistband and jolts at his own touch. Melmord hikes the borrowed shirt up higher, trapping Magnus’ arms a little more, thumb running over the divot in his sternum. Magnus strokes himself and groans, the solidity at his back and the hint of danger making the fabric between his thighs cling wetly to his skin. A calloused palm catches and drags at his chest hair, blunt nails pressing under his jaw only enough to make him gasp. Melmord runs his tongue over the shell of Magnus’ ear, teeth brushing the skin as he speaks. 

“What do we say?”

“Fuck me?” Magnus gasps, his fingers wet and instinctively digging at swollen flesh. 

Melmord makes a thoughtful sound, toying with the nipple in his reach. The roll and tight pinch has Magnus biting his lip, head arched back. Need mixes with a frisson of dread in his gut and the certainty that he’s done something wrong builds only to be toppled by Melmord efficiently crushing him into the couch. The hand at his neck is gone, the arm around his chest now holding his wrist in place long enough for Melmord to pull down both of their shorts. Magnus’ other arm is pinned beneath his own body; he waggles sticky fingers at his captor from between his thighs. 

Melmord knows how to use his own weight to his advantage. He leans down, muscle and angle pinning Magnus helpless beneath him. With his hands free he runs them down Magnus’ sides burning a trail of heat that makes the man whine in frustration. Magnus can only just brush the tip of Melmord’s bobbing cock with his pinned fingers. 

“I could listen to this all day,” Melmord lifts his hips just enough to rest his cock over Magnus’ ass, the heat making him growl and squirm in frustration. 

With one hand firmly gripping a shoulder, he uses the other to guide himself in, taking his time to fill Magnus until their bodies are flush to one another’s. Magnus squirms but has no leverage in his position. Melmord digs a hand under them to caress Magnus’ dick. 

“I said ‘fuck me’,” Magnus grouses half into a couch cushion. 

“Oh, no can do, bruh,” Melmord says with a grinning kiss on his cheek and a languorous rock of hips. “I’m getting paid by the minute and I’ve got some overtime.”

His pace is like waiting for a pot to boil, steady and rhythmic and always enough to keep the heat rising. Magnus writhes and pants, feeling hollowed out every time Melmord slowly pulls back but never all the way out. His inward thrusts feel like they last an eternity, his circling fingers making Magnus twitch around the heat impaling him. Melmord busies his mouth sucking and nibbling at ear and neck, humming thoughtfully to himself as every slow motion draws a new and louder sound from the man beneath him. 

“Christ!” Magnus groans, shaking and tense. 

“You need something?” Another slow push that feels like it’s touching everything inside him. 

“I need...need to cum.” Magnus is sweating, trying to squirm in spite of everything holding him down. “I’m so close. Please?”

“Aww. I can’t say no to that.”

He picks up the pace fractionally, still achingly tender, fingers applying a little more pressure. A gasping mewl escapes Magnus as he seizes in a paroxysm of ecstasy. His vision whites out, muscles clenching around the heat filling his insides. It feels like he’s been scattered across the universe, only coming back to himself in trembling pieces. From the corner of his eye he can just see Melmord’s smile, a gentle thing with no trace of smugness. It’s like looking at the sun, too painful, too bright. Magnus shuts his eyes and groans. 

“Mmm, that was nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Melmord is still hard and unyielding inside him. “You gonna finish?”

A hand brushes sweat damp curls from Magnus’ brow. “In a bit.”

He lays a soft kiss on Magnus’ temple and carefully starts to move again. 


End file.
